I should probably point out here that everyone else’s
schedule didn’t change one bit. Mom still rose at the crack of dawn to make
breakfast for all and sundry. Look after her two babies and numerous other
children. Clean. Hoe the garden. Take care of the pets that we children
insisted on getting (and tended diligently for the whole of two hours). And
generally make sure that the home wheels were greased and running smoothly.

Dad had also risen at the same time. Heading out into the pure
morning air to coordinate with the hired men and make assignments, check the
animals in the ranch proper, feed said animals, milk any and all available cows
and generally greet the rising sun before reporting back to the ranchhouse for
a well-earned breakfast.

The older kids had gotten up more or less with our parents.
Eaten and hurried off to their assigned tasks.

Then Diane awakened. Stumbled out of her bedroom to an
empty, tidy kitchen (yes, Mom was a miracle worker) and began to scrounge up
her own breakfast.

Okay, yes, there was probably a plate of something
foil-wrapped and kept warm on the back of the stove, but what fun was there in
that?

Especially when Mom wasn’t there to supervise Diane’s sugar
intake.

Because that was what ‘scrounging her own breakfast’ meant.

Sugar.

Now on a normal day, Diane was allowed just two teaspoons of
chocolate in her glass of frothy, fresh milk.

When Mom was absent, the sky was the limit.

And the colour of the milk went from white to dark in a few
delicious, heaping-teaspoonsful seconds.

But it didn’t end there.

Nope.

There was also the bowl of branflakes. Poured generously
into Diane’s favourite bunny bowl. Packed down and covered with just the right
amount of creamy milk. Packed down again to make sure every flack received its
milky due.

Then unsupervisedly (?) covered again with a rich layer of
granulated, white, heaven—aka: sugar.

Then the eating—or rather—gorging began.

You have to know that Mom wasn’t very often absent from the
kitchen—even on Saturdays.

Thursday, March 29, 2018

Being of a very practical mind set, any gift presented to me
needs to be the same. Practical. Oh, I will admit that the occasional bouquet
of flowers will definitely not be thrown out, but tenderly interred in a vase
until such time as they have gone the way of all the earth.

At which time they will
be thrown out.

Ahem . . .

Husby, on the other hand, loves to give gifts. And
practicality is not a requirement.

In fact, when choosing something for me, he goes out of his
way to find ‘something else’ that isn’t for home or yard.

But he has learned in our over forty years of marriage, that
when I say I want a new frying pan for Christmas, a new frying pan is what will
make me happy.

Back to the gift purchased by Husby and Son #3.

A few years ago, someone—may I call them genius?—invented a
vacuum that doesn’t need anyone to operate it. Independent and effective, it
bounces back and forth around the room until every single surface has been
swept clean.

It’s remarkably effective.

At least that is what I saw on the TV spot.

And decided I wanted. On the spot.

To clean up the messy spots in my house.

Okay, now I’m seeing spots.

Moving on . . .

I pointed. “That is what I want for Christmas!”

Husby countered with his patented, “But I want to get
something for you!”

To which I replied, “That is for me!”

Nothing more was said. Until Christmas morning when the box,
partially-wrapped as per Son #3’s penchant, was set on the floor in front of
me.

Frenzied removal of the woefully inadequate wrapping.

Exclamations of surprise and delight.

The reading of instructions.

And the immediate putting to work of my new right-hand man.

‘Buddy’, as he was
dubbed, from that moment, did the one job in my house I have always loathed.

Vacuuming.

My affection for him was instant and long-lasting.

Daily, he bustles around the house, doing a remarkably
effective job of removing visible dirt and icky stuff.

He has even been known to find lost puzzle pieces.

There are a couple of drawbacks.

And we have finally come to the point of my story . . .

Buddy was vacuuming.

I was in my office. Writing.

Buddy came in and proceeded to bump into things.

I got up and left for a moment.

Then heard the ‘alert’ sound from my beloved helper.
Followed by an immediate power down.

I hurried back to the room.

Only to discover that Buddy had eaten the cord of a charger.
Causing instant indigestion.

Chastising him vocally, I carried him out to the kitchen to
perform the necessary cord-ectomy.

Picture it: Upending the unit. Removal of the rollers that prove
so effective in home maintenance. Removal of said cord. Emptying of all tanks
and reservoirs and unexpected storage places.

Reinstalling of rollers.

Uprighting.

And sending back to work.

The whole time, keeping up a steady stream of: “You silly boy! Don’t you know that cords only make you sick? Where did you find this? And a button! Oh, good, I was looking for that one.” And once he was back on the floor, a final word: “Now stay out of trouble!”

My granddaughter was watching the whole operation. As Buddy buzzed off, she looked at me. “Gramma. You were talking to the vacuum.”

I nodded as I washed my hands.

“Gramma, that’s weird.”

I thought of the times I had fished Buddy out of yet another scrape. Most notably getting stuck in the

bathroom. (We may possibly have the cleanest bathroom floor in the world.)

Wednesday, March 28, 2018

Years ago, while on a business/holiday, the four of us:
Husby, me, Business Partner (hereinafter known unimaginatively as BP) and his sweet
wife stopped at a well-known mud wallow.

Now before you think there was any sort of mud-wrestling
performed there, let me further inform you that it was a place where,
anciently, Native Americans drove buffalo and, when the animals became mired in
the sticky ickiness (technical term) dispatched them at their leisure. Rinsed
them off. And ate them.

True story.

Today this place is a treasure trove of boney remainders as
well as ancient tools and weapons.

While we two women sat visiting in the campsite, the men
decided to go off on a might-find-an-arrowhead explore.

Which they did.

And which they did.

Grinning widely the two returned a short time later with the
(to quote them) Find-of-the-Century.

An arrowhead.

A real arrowhead.

Which they proudly held out for their wives to oooh and
aaah.

I have to tell you that it really didn’t match the
description of any artifact I had seen or heard of.

For one thing, it was made of rubber.

And featured a suction cup at one end.

Yes, it was an arrowhead.

But one generally seen fitted to the end of a short stick
notched to a tiny bow in the hands of the nearest modern four-year-old.

Technically an arrowhead, though.

Moving forward too many years to count . . .

Supper hour was fast approaching.

Our two intrepid hunters, both a little older and greyer
than during their last hunting trip, took it upon themselves to ‘hunter-gather’
us women some grub.

Bravely, they set forth.

Armed only with their mode of conveyance.

And their wallets.

Grinning widely, they returned a short time later having--in their words--bagged a trophy.

Tuesday, March 27, 2018

“Wear a jacket.” “Put on your shoes.” “Where’s your hat?” “You
need gloves/boots/armour in the barnyard.” “Get your helmet!” “I don’t care
what the other girls are wearing, you are not going swimming naked!”

And others.

Clothes were almost a uniform to her. You wore what was appropriate.
When it was appropriate.

Oh, we were still able to dress in what was going.
Bell-bottoms. Not-quite-mini skirts. Go-go boots. (Okay those were my sister’s
that I may or may not have sneaked out of her room.)

But one had to wear what. And when.

Now to my story . . .

Husby and I are in the sweet little town of Cardston,
Alberta.

Husby wants to build a museum here and/or spruce up the main
street.

It entails lots of glimpses into history.

Yesterday, he and his partner were touring the period hotel
that graces main street. The Cahoon.

And I had my own glimpse into history . . .

Mom and dad and we kids were here in Cardston for some
reason.

I don’t remember why. Relatives? Church? Business?

I was five. I had gotten into the car because whenever the
family was going somewhere, it was an ADVENTURE.

Soooo . . . Cardston.

While we were here, as sometimes happens in the Great
Canadian Prairies in close proximity to the
equally-great-but-for-different-reasons Rocky Mountains in the winter, a great
storm blew in.

And engulfed us.

And the town.

And probably quite a large part of the surrounding
countryside.

Dad decided it was far safer to seek refuge right here where
we were.

We drove to the only hotel. The Cahoon. A great stone
structure that loomed over main street.

Requested and were granted rooms.

And proceeded to ready ourselves for bed.

I remember three things. That make sense to me now, knowing
that the stop-over was completely unplanned. But that didn’t when I was five.

1. A great iron bedstead that creaked and was
really springy and perfect for jumping. Except that Argus of the Hundred Eyes (ie.
Mom) was watching me.

2. I didn’t have to brush my teeth because I didn’t
have a toothbrush. And, most importantly.

3. Mom stripped me out of my clothes and tucked me
into the great, springy bed in only my undershirt and panties.

Wait. What? No Pajamas?

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously.
Not even a nightie?

This had never—ever—happened before.
I was expected to actually sleep? Almost naked?

I know I probably went out like
the proverbial candle, with or without my pajamas.

And woke the next morning as
refreshed and energetic as if I had been in my own bed, on my own ranch, in my own PJ’s.

To yet another new and exciting
thing:

4. Breakfast
in the hotel restaurant!

It’s funny how all of this came back as we stood there,
staring up at the great, old hotel.

P.S. You have to know that pajamas still make up a large
part of preparing myself for bed.

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My novel, Carving Angels

My Second Novel: Kris Kringle's Magic

About the Mom

Diane was born and raised on one of the last of the great old Southern Alberta ranches. A way of life that is fast disappearing now. Through her memories and stories, she keeps it alive. And even, at times, accurate . . .